


Quiet

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Breathplay, Choking, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier attend the same banquet, but someone spiked the ale, and they have sex in a dark hallway. Geralt feels conflicted about it because he thinks too much; Jaskier just rolls with it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 347





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N about the tags: dub-con is for part 1, because of circumstances; kink negotiation is for part 2, where they actually talk things out a bit more.

Geralt blames it on all the ale he has been drinking at the banquet. It’s Temerian, and it goes straight to his head. Why else would he keep licking his lips as he watches Jaskier perform?

They’re attending the same banquet on different pretenses, and Geralt wishes he was somewhere else. At least he got to wear his own clothes this time, and he has a dagger in his boot, in case there really is a vampire preying on the rich and powerful of the court, like he was told when he was hired. Jaskier just happened to be invited to play at the same event, and no monster would have stopped him.

The bard has been basking in everyone’s admiration all night long, whether it is for his musical talents, or, apparently, his _other_ talents. Many people flock to greet him and giggle awkwardly when he rewards them with the flash of a smile or a hand lingering on their waist. It’s intoxicating and quite frankly a bit strange to see him so popular and in his element, when all Geralt can usually see is an annoying mess of a man.

 _Don’t think about the bard_ , Geralt tells himself all night, as the songs are getting raunchier and everyone drunker. He has a job to do, people to watch, monsters to kill. But the party is boring, and the vampire scare seems less and less likely as time drags on. Rich people are annoying and entitled, Geralt thinks, and he remembers which he usually likes his hunt outside, and alone. The bard has been singing all night long, always at the back of his mind, nagging.

But when the bard takes a break from his set, it doesn't help either. Next time Geralt lays his eyes on Jaskier, he has to stop himself from growling. He looks undone, sweaty and drunk, eyes closed as he lets a young woman suck on the lobe of his ear. She must be whispering something naughty, because Jaskier blushes and giggles. She’s all over him now, hands roaming, and Jaskier looks blissfully unaware of Geralt’s judging gaze. Well, he isn’t really judging, he knows his bard can’t keep it in his pants, but seeing it play out in front of him takes him by surprise. And he would have been lying if he said his own pants didn’t feel tighter all of a sudden.

Jaskier is young, he still has that gangly awkwardness to him, the kind that often made Geralt wonder what he would look like in bed, and why so many people want a taste of him. But as he watches him get fondled in a corner - Jaskier looks absolutely sex crazed, kissing the woman roughly as if he couldn't care less about who might be watching - Geralt understands better. He wonders if Jaskier would be pliant and submissive, or if he would chatter throughout, blatantly vocal about the things he likes and wants. Strangely enough, imagining Jaskier prattling away doesn’t even ruin his fantasy. The bard would probably laugh and joke, and be as obnoxious as when he is fully clothed.

 _It must be the ale_ , Geralt tells himself, but now he really wants to taste the bard’s sweet lips too.  
At this point the witcher is pretty sure there is no vampire preying on the court – either because his presence is enough of a deterrent, or because the Count who hired him was too scared and too stupid to properly judge the situation.

*

Jaskier must have seen Geralt brooding in a corner during his set, and yet he seems surprised when they run into each other in a corridor outside the main hall, as the party starts to lull. It’s not really an accident, as Geralt was looking for the bard, fueled by jealousy and lust. Sometime during his performance, Jaskier had discarded his bright blue doublet, and he looks sinful right now. He runs face first into Geralt and grips his biceps in order not to fall. His breath is hot on Geralt’s open shirt, and when he looks at him, his pupils are widely dilated.

“Enjoying yourself?” Geralt mocks, but he can’t hide the tinge of resentment from his voice – _without me_ , he nearly adds.

“I think the Countess is madly in love with me,” Jaskier slurs. “Too bad she’s married…”

Geralt should answer something smart, but his mind draws a blank. He wants him, he realizes, has always wanted him. _It’s the ale_ , he tells himself, nothing but an alcohol-induced arousal. _It’ll pass_ – but his cock says otherwise. Jaskier still hasn’t let go of his arms, and Geralt is suddenly hyper aware of his long, slender fingers on him.

“Come with me,” he says in a breath, his voice raspy with desire.

And Jaskier just follows him, not even asking what he wants. He just lets Geralt lead him into a darker hallway, closer to the kitchens and farther from the main hall.

Then Geralt pushes him into a wall, feeling a bit guilty when his back hits the stones rather hard, but Jaskier doesn’t utter a sound, and the witcher knows he must be pretty drunk, because he’s usually so prompt to whine about every little discomfort. Geralt grips his shoulders and locks him into place; he’s not that much taller than Jaskier, but right now he feels stronger and all powerful. _The ale, it’s just the ale_.

He buries his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s nape, and the bard mewls. He smells of booze, women’s perfumes and something unmistakably Jaskier, buried underneath. Geralt wants him, so badly.

“Didn’t think you’d have it in you,” Jaskier says, and he sounds smug. “I have been leading you on all night, but you were so focused on our vampire hunt…”

“There is no vampire,” Geralt says in his ear, just where the mouth of that girl had been earlier.

“Oh good,” Jaskier says.

 _Good, indeed_. They’re both where they shouldn’t be, doing anything but their supposed jobs. It’s dangerous, all of a sudden, and the thrill of getting discovered sends a wave of arousal straight to Geralt’s dick. Which doesn’t go unnoticed, as Jaskier starts to palm him through his trousers.

Geralt knows he should argue; it’s not how he imagined any of it. And yet he leans forward and kisses Jaskier, hard; the bard is eager and enthusiastic. He starts talking as soon as Geralt releases his mouth, something about his room and his contract, and it’s distracting, so the witcher goes for his throat instead, nibbling on it and thinking about that vampire rumor that had prompted the Count to call for him.

Geralt starts to fumble with Jaskier’s pants, but the thing is full of laces and way too delicate to just pull at it.

“Don’t… It’s…” Jaskier argues, and he guides Geralt’s hand to the back where the laces are tied.

The angle is not practical, so he flips Jaskier to face the wall, tugging at the laces and finally his pants are undone, pooling around his ankles, still caught in his boots. Despite what that irate noble said at Queen Calanthe’s banquet, Jaskier’s ass is not pimply. It’s smooth, and while it’s too dark to see properly, Geralt knows the skin there is very pale. He runs an appreciative hand over it, and Jaskier’s breath hitches. Rough, calloused palms grasp, and fingers start to explore.

“Wait,” Jaskier says to the wall, and he tries to twist around.

Geralt doesn’t want to stop, but he stills, his fingers teasing at Jaskier’s hole, not yet breaching him. Jaskier fumbles with his pants, and for a brief, terrible second, Geralt thinks he wants to stop, to flee far away from the rutting monster he's suddenly become. Arousal is stronger than shame though, and he’s not sure he wants to let go of the bard.

“Ah!” Jaskier says, triumphant, as he holds up a little vial of… oil?

Geralt nearly asks what he was planning to do with that, but decides it’s best not to know. He uncorks it, sniffs it; Jaskier rolls his hips as if to tell him to get on with it. Right. He lathers his fingers and grips Jaskier’s ass once again.

“Wait,” Jaskier interrupts again, and Geralt just groans. “Don’t you want me to…” He makes a sucking gesture, bobbing his head as if to demonstrate, and Geralt feels all sanity leave him for a brief instant. It might just be the thing to shut him up, but they are in a hurry, someone is bound to walk in on them if they don’t act soon.

“No time,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier seems surprised, but he doesn't argue. He smirks when he turns around to brace himself against the wall, saying something about how great he is at giving oral and how Geralt is actually missing out.

Fingers slip in, and out, and in again. The oil smells of lavender and something Geralt can’t place. They’re both drunk, but he doesn’t want to hurt the bard, so he takes his time to prepare him, until Jaskier starts rutting against his hand, whining for more.

The witcher quickly frees his cock from his breeches, not even bothering to undress. It only takes a few strokes for him to get fully erect. Jaskier reaches back, fumbling, trying to guide Geralt, who is certain he doesn’t need help. He says something about Geralt’s girth, giggles and starts babbling about the Count of all people. _Just who was he planning to use that oil with…_

Geralt lines up and enters Jaskier, maybe faster than he should have. He just wants the bard to shut up about other people’s cocks. It must burn, because Jaskier is silent for a moment, panting and resting his forehead on the cold wall. The angle is not ideal, but Jaskier is about as tall as the witcher, and deceptively strong despite his looks. The lean muscles of his back contract, as he strains and huffs.

It’s only when his ass finally brushes against Geralt’s leather pants that Jaskier starts talking again. He makes little appreciative noises and utters broken comments. Geralt does all he can not to rut furiously into the tight heat.

Some part of him keeps repeating that this is wrong – alcohol is making them reckless. Someone will pass this corridor and see them, and they won’t get paid, and they’ll get thrown out and Jaskier will hate him and…

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Jaskier laughs breathlessly, and he reaches a hand back to stroke Geralt’s flank, like he would a spooked horse. That little touch does the trick, and Geralt starts moving with careful thrusts.

“I’m not… fragile…” Jaskier pants, petulant as ever. “Go faster already.”

Geralt picks up the pace, as Jaskier keeps talking about his cock – at least he’s not comparing it to other people’s anymore. He can see the bard’s arms straining against the wall, so he wraps his own arm around his torso, keeping him upright as he hits that bundle of nerves that usually leaves men gasping. But not Jaskier apparently; if anything, hitting his prostate makes him even more talkative.

That’s when Geralt hears footsteps at their back. He’s still mostly clothed, so if he stills and stays silent, they might overlook him entirely, as long as they don’t see Jaskier. They’re close now, too close, so Geralt stops moving, still sheathed, trapping Jaskier between him and the wall.

“No! What?” Jaskier is having none of it though, as he probably doesn’t even hear the approaching noises. “Geralt, please!” His whining sounds filthy and oh so wrong, as he bucks against Geralt’s unyielding form, trying to dislodge him, or force him to move, it’s not clear anymore at this point.

“Be quiet,” Geralt growls, very low in his ear.

And when that doesn’t work, he puts his hand over the bard’s mouth and just grips his jaw to silence him. Jaskier stays like that, speared on Geralt’s dick, with a heavy hand clamped over his mouth. His breath comes in short bursts through his nose, and after a few seconds of silence, he starts moaning again, despite Geralt’s fingers. Footsteps are coming closer, so Geralt doesn’t think, he just acts. He presses his whole body against Jaskier’s, and grips the bard’s throat instead.

The effect is immediate; blissful silence. Geralt is careful not to grip too hard, he doesn’t want Jaskier to pass out, or to damage his throat, but he doesn’t let go, even after the footsteps have gone away. He flexes his hand, allowing Jaskier to draw a shaky breath, and squeezes again, while resuming his slow fucking.

The noises Jaskier makes now, when he can get any air, are just indecent. It is even more distracting that the constant chattering somehow, and Geralt’s last thrusts are near erratic. He climaxes and has to bite Jaskier’s shoulder, just above his collarbone, to stop himself from howling.

When clarity comes back to him, he feels bad because he probably kept his hand way too long around the bard’s throat. He relaxes his fingers, letting go entirely, and he strokes Jaskier’s dick instead, while feels his own soften. Jaskier comes almost silently after that, truly pliant against him. And when Geralt buries his head in his neck again, he can't smell anyone else but him and Jaskier now.

*

Geralt wakes up in a bed that is not his, with a splitting headache that screams hangover. He hasn’t had one in a long time, which says something about the banquet ale. Snippets of his activities last night come back to him, disjointed images of lust and desire. He probably shouldn’t have done any of that, and he selfishly hopes that Jaskier’s hangover is even worse than his, and that he doesn’t remember a thing. The pain in his ass might be harder to explain, but it probably wouldn’t be a first for the fleeting bard.

The door opens with a bang, and Jaskier comes into the room, looking way too energetic this early in the morning. He’s balancing mugs and bread on a small tray, which he manages to put down on the bed without dropping anything, closing the door behind him with his foot. Geralt just groans.

“Geralt, you look pale, well, paler than usual, are you alright?” Jaskier asks, as he climbs back into the bed and grabs a bread roll. He looks so relaxed and clean, cleaner than last night in that corridor, slick with sweat and other fluids, pinned against…

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, shaking his head to get rid of the memories.

“Well I hope you are,” Jaskier exclaims. “Thanks for ruining my second set yesterday.” He gestures as the colorful bruises on his slender neck, and Geralt feels guilt twist inside.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I shouldn’t have forced myself on you. I wasn’t thinking…”

“It was the ale,” Jaskier says, with that witty way of his. “Someone felt like having a little fun and spiked the whole supply of ale,” he adds with a laugh. “It was a very sexy banquet.” 

Geralt is too dumbstruck to react, while Jaskier continues talking, looking so smug and so content. “I’ll have to remember to thank them if they ever find who it was, because it managed to convince you when years of flirting got me nowhere.”

Then he seems to realize that Geralt is staring at him, because he asks in a tiny voice, “You’re not having regrets, are you? Because if you do, we can pretend it never happened and go back to being a bickering duo of barely-friends-who-don’t-fuck…”

“Jaskier, shut up,” Geralt growls.

“Shutting up.” Jaskier gives him a thumbs up and flops on the bed next to him, munching on his bread.

“Wait, if you had a room for the night,” Geralt asks, frowning, “then why did we fuck in the corridor?”

“It was more fun?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling horny, please excuse me for this.  
> Big thanks to my betas :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they discuss consent issues, and also fuck again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is for that one reader who subscribed the first day.)

Jaskier ends his set early, because people are starting to pellet him with food again. He is only traveling north because he heard rumors that the White Wolf might be around, and he already hates it here.

He’s on his way to order some food when he spots Geralt entering the tavern. They freeze and look at each other, but then Geralt smiles; it’s brief, and quickly replaced by an exasperated scowl. They sit at the same table, because people are already whispering about him; Geralt downs two tankards before he even opens his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” he asks Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugs. “I need new material. Nobody appreciates my songs.”

“You were looking for me?”

The bard nods. “I have a room upstairs. If that’s okay with you.”

*

The room is small and the bed lumpy; Jaskier knows because he’s been staying there for two days now, waiting for the witcher to show up. Geralt frets with his weapons, then his armor. He’s rather clean, for once, so he must be in between jobs.

Stripped down to his black shirt, he looks less intimidating than in his whole witcher attire, but Jaskier can’t help but lick his lips because he’s still very broad and massive. Arms made to crush, that could send him across the room if Geralt wanted to.

Jaskier is not afraid, though, he has never really been, even when he should have. But the mental image remains. He wonders if witchers can smell arousal, and what Geralt is thinking right now.

“Are you still upset with that whole pounding at the banquet?” Jaskier tries, because that must be the reason why Geralt won’t sit on the bed next to him, won’t even look at him in the eye.

Geralt makes a face.

“That time we fucked?” Jaskier says instead, thinking maybe the terminology is bothering the witcher. “Well we didn’t make love, that’s for sure!” he says with a breathy laugh.

A sad frown passes on Geralt’s face, quickly hidden behind careful layers of expressionless brooding.

“But it was lovely!” Jaskier quickly adds, as he can sense Geralt getting more and more uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t in my right mind,” Geralt finally says. “I don’t think I could have stopped if…” Geralt doesn’t finish his sentence, but Jaskier knows what he means.

“What if I didn’t want you to stop?” Jaskier remarks. “I mean look at you, those thighs, that chiseled body made entirely of muscles… You could crush me, break me, smother me, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything.”

“Not that I actually want you to hurt me,” Jaskier quickly adds because Geralt looks angry now, like he’s mistaking the praise for something else entirely, a criticism of his non human body.

“I just like to imagine the possibility of you taking full control of me,” Jaskier tries to explain. “Women are nice and soft, sometimes fierce and commanding, but they don’t have the strength to make it believable.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at that.

“How about we try again?” Jaskier offers. “Sober this time. Well mostly sober.”

For a brief second he wonders if Geralt is going to bolt out the door. He looks ready to do so. But the witcher strides to the bed, bends forward and kisses him hard. His hand cups the back of his head, tangling in his hair, unyielding, and his mouth is demanding. It’s inescapable. It’s perfect.

Then Geralt lets him go and asks, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Jaskier’s head is buzzing, and he wants more, no doubts, no interruptions. “Who wouldn’t want to have you in their bed? You’re beautiful!” Jaskier says, flailing slightly.

“I’m covered in scars,” Geralt argues.

“Part of the appeal.”

“I’m a monster,” the witcher adds with a growl.

“Well some people are into that,” Jaskier says, maybe a little too loudly.

“You’re into monsters,” Geralt repeats, and his smirk is back.

“I’m into you.”

*

Clothes are shed, too quickly for Jaskier’s liking – “will you please be careful, this is satin, you brute!” – and it’s somehow more intimidating now that he can actually see Geralt, naked in all his glory, standing in front of him at the foot of the bed. He’s beefy like no other man Jaskier ever bedded, and the scars on his skin tell a terrible story of violence and survival.

Jaskier runs his hands in his chest, his shoulders, exploring muscles and scar tissue with his fingertips. Geralt grunts and pushes him back on the bed.

“How do you want this, bard?” he asks, teasing, before straddling Jaskier’s thighs and putting his hands and each side of his head. The bard knows he should feel trapped, and yet he has never felt so alive.

“I want, hm…” Jaskier swallows, thinking wildly. He hasn’t really thought that far, as some part of him was afraid it really was just the ale.

“I want you to make me sing,” he ends up saying.

It means nothing in particular really, but Geralt seems to understand him. He moves to the side instead, still kneeling on the bed, and lets his hands roam over Jaskier’s stomach, then farther down, following his happy trail all the way to his cock.

Jaskier is half expecting a hand-job, which is fine, but then Geralt bends over him until his long white hair brushes his skin. His mouth is hot with each breath on the inside of his thigh, and hotter when it closes over his head.

Jaskier is babbling half nonsense about Geralt’s mouth and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, until the witcher makes a throaty “hmm” around his cock and it takes everything for him not to come right there.

A finger circles his hole, blunt and way too dry, and the jolt of adrenaline he gets from that is electrifying. He’s not actually singing, but his vocalizations, in between hard panting, are reaching interesting notes.

Someone bangs on the wall, screaming, “Knock it off, you freaks.”

They still, and Jaskier giggles softly.

“See, I wouldn’t mind if you tried and shut me up,” he suggests, stroking Geralt’s arm.

The witcher looks at him with an unreadable gaze; he’s probably replaying the banquet’s night in his head, like the fool Jaskier knows he is. Except now they have time, they have all night if need be.

“It’s not the first time I bring some company up here,” Jaskier explains, as Geralt moves away from him and lies on his back. “I guess they just want to sleep in silence.”

Geralt still hasn’t said anything, so Jaskier sits up and presses, “Do _you_ want to sleep in silence?”

“Does that excite you?” Geralt says, and Jaskier is taken aback for a moment, until it dawns on him.

“Oh. The choking you mean?”

Geralt nods minutely, not looking at him.

“Only if it doesn’t weird you out,” Jaskier tries, with a frown.

He doesn’t want to sound too eager and scare him off. Of course it’s exciting, why wouldn’t it be? Those huge, murderous hands, holding him tight enough to silence him, but not enough to do any real damage.

“What if I hurt you?” Geralt argues.

Jaskier sits up again to look at him, as he tries to convey how serious he is, “One, I don’t think you actually would.” He raises a hand when Geralt opens his mouth to argue. “And two, I’ll let you know if it’s too much.”

Geralt gets up from the bed without a word, and strides to his things on the table. It’s a great sight, really, naked as he is, with his massive cock half mast. Jaskier can’t read his expression – but his little “hmm” is clearly triumphant when he retrieves something from his pack. Probably oil he uses for his swords or his leathers.

They fall back on the bed, roll around for a moment, but Jaskier can sense that Geralt is doing all he can to restrain himself. He can practically hear him think – “Don’t break the bard, don’t hurt him…” – and it’s getting annoying. Not that he minds vanilla sex, but that would be a waste of Geralt’s formidable body.

And so Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand, and puts two of his fingers in his mouth. He sucks on them and makes as much noise as possible. It’s filthy, and hot, and apparently very annoying because the man next door starts banging on the wall again.

Something possessive flashes in Geralt’s eyes, and next thing Jaskier knows, he’s flat on his back again, with a hand around his throat, not even tight, just there, and a slick finger in his ass. _Good_ , he thinks.

He moans, and the hand flexes, a warning. Geralt adds a second finger and looks at him, as if asking for permission. He doesn’t get any, because Jaskier can’t speak right now; he knows he must look positively undone, his cheeks flushed red and his hair tousled, sticking to his brow. But maybe witchers can smell lust after all, because Geralt replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, while the hand never leaves his throat.

Jaskier wants to babble, praise Geralt’s cock and tell him what he needs, but he can’t, and that’s the thrill of it apparently. His own dick is leaking precome all over his stomach, trapped between their bodies.

It should be silent now, but it’s not, and the room fills with other sounds now that Jaskier can speak. There’s the bed creaking against the wall, slick sounds of friction and harsh panting. No one is knocking on the wall anymore, they probably just gave up. Or maybe they’re listening in. Jaskier makes a wanton noise at the thought and digs his heels into Geralt’s back, who picks up the pace, unrelenting.

His dick hits that part of him that sends fireworks behind his closed eyelids. At the same time his hand closes completely on his throat, cutting off his airway. That’s exactly what Jaskier wanted, and even more.

When he opens his eyes, the witcher is staring down at him, long white hair framing his face, and he looks wild. He looks _his_. Jaskier raises a hand to stroke his cheek, the gesture odd and so gentle. It sends Geralt over the edge, and he comes with a grunt.

He lets go of Jaskier’s neck, who draws a shaky breath. Geralt is draped over him, heavy and hot and sweaty. It’s not a cuddle, it’s something else entirely, Jaskier thinks, as he untangles his legs, muscles stiff and sore. Something possessive.

When Geralt finally slips out of him, and rolls off to lie on the bed next to him, Jaskier is reminded of his own leaking cock, and he looks at Geralt with a hopeful smile. “If I promise to be very silent?”

The witcher’s fingers are very gentle along his length, cautious even, but then he starts stroking firmly, and Jaskier comes with a grin on his face.

“Now, Geralt, what rhymes with great cock? Rock, shock?”

“You are not writing a song about this.”

“You can’t silence a bard, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send comments, I need validation :')


End file.
